Piano Man
by Kate the Kannibal
Summary: New Moon drabble. Edward is passing the time away playing the piano. What better place to drown in loneliness than a bar? Based off the song "Piano Man" by Billy Joel.


This was a small idea that's been knocking about in my head for a while now.

"Piano Man" by Billy Joel has always reminded me of Edward so I finally decided to do something about it. I won't have the lyrics in here, so go youtube the song. You need it to understand this, I promise.

This is my first time really developing Edward in first person, so tell me how I do.

* * *

It's been three months now.

They say that time flies when you're having fun, and it has to be true because those three months have seemed longer than my entire live so far.

I tried to busy myself by tracking down Victoria. It made me feel like I was doing something for her, something other than leaving her. Maybe I could talk myself into it. That I was going to track down Victoria and then come home to her. Maybe.

But that wouldn't work. I knew it wouldn't.

I would come to a dead end, but instead of backtracking and finding another trail, I would stay for a while. Mope, I suppose. It seemed like there was no reason to, seeing as I was the one that left her, but I still did. Still felt like my world was crashing down. Still felt like there wasn't a reason to the world. There wasn't a purpose.

Currently, I'm in a dead end. Victoria lead me to Philadelphia and I found myself in an old bar - not an oddity in this city.

I felt like a typical vampire: I stayed inside during the day, and came to this bar every night.

It's nine o'clock if the slow old thing on the wall can be trusted. The Saturday night regulars have already poured in, and nearly all have a drink in their hands.

There's an old man right beside me who's had quite a few too many. His name is George, if I'm much mistaken, and is good friends with the bartender.

The bartender is Joe, an older man who must be going into his late forties. He smiles, laughs, jokes, and is generally friendly. He's also the one that gives me a free drink every two or three that I buy. He pulls it off to everyone but me; in his mind, he's miserable as the rest of us. He wanted to be an actor, make it big in hollywood. Instead, he's stuck here.

Paul is another regular. He's also dreadfully average. He has a job in real estate, which isn't doing so well what with the current economy, and has troubles with his wife. His two boys at home don't get along with him, simply because he isn't home enough. It's frightfully obvious that if he just spent some time with them, the problems would be resolved.

Dave is relatively new, like myself. He's from this city, though, and has family here. They just don't get along. They never liked that he went into the army straight from high school, and it drove a stake through the family. He's not married, unless they never speak or something. He's never thought about a wife or kids.

Molly is a young waitress. Too young. She also has another night job, one a little less respectable. I pitied her, though. Her home life never taught her any better. She was trying to get out of here, though, which was more than a lot of others in her position.

There's a businessman on the other end of the bar who's never come in before tonight. He's completely pissed and if I could understand his incoherent thoughts he lost everything tonight. I could relate to him more than anyone.

Joe turned to me, as he did every night I came in, and asked if I could play for a bit. It was exchange: my playing for his drinks that I would never actually enjoy, nor drink if I could help it.

I got up without a word, as I did every night, and made my way to the piano. The younger college kids playing a rowdy game of darts ended their game to sit down, order some drinks, and listen. The regulars quieted down and waited for me to start. I played whatever was on my mind, and I never received any requests until after at least three songs. They could tell my mood on whatever I decided to play and only then did they put in requests, as long as I was in a mood to accept them.

I started off with a song that I'd created my first night here, one that represented my torn up emotions perfectly. It was a familiar one, and several people tapped their feet to the beat.

Somehow, I followed the compulsion to play Bella's Lullaby. It was something they hadn't heard before, and they all grew incredibly somber as they watched my hunched over form. It tortured me from the inside out and I couldn't play the entire thing so I stopped.

Silence rang for what must have been an entire minute before I moved. I stood up and took the microphone from the center of their rather small and ragtag stage. Quickly and efficiently, I bent it to poise over the piano perfectly. I sat back down and ran a hand through my matted, dirty hair. No one here had heard me speak before, much less sing. Not even Joe.

So I played the beginning to "Piano Man," improvising the harmonica with some different notes. It sounded okay, though not perfect, to my ears. To the humans, it would probably be flawless.

I opened my mouth and began to sing a song that, right now, held more meaning than _almost_ anything else.


End file.
